


just barely fuckin' enough

by gigiree



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigiree/pseuds/gigiree
Summary: Kill or be killed...he'd naively thought that had stopped being the rule when the sun had warmed his weary bones.You'd naively thought you could move forward, learning to live with your regrets.Time has said fuck you to the both of you. Sans and you are barely clinging on to the barest of motivations, but when he discovers that you're aware of the time loops, he enlists your help in trying to rescue Frisk and Papyrus from their inevitable deaths.You embark on a journey, hating the dependency on each other's presence. But this has to be just enough, because it's all you've fucking got.
Relationships: Sans (Underfell)/Reader, Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 59





	1. Anger Them

You wake to that same alarm. You don’t even bother spitting out the hair from your mouth or shoving off your covers before you grab the shrieking clock and hurl it with your meager strength against the wall.

That does nothing to shut it up, but it’s with a sudden anger you realize that alarm clocks haven’t been a thing with you for a while and you’ve just thrown your cell phone. It lands with an accusing clatter on your carpet. You know the screen is going to be cracked.

**“** Fuck. Shit. Damn. CRAP!  **WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!** ”

You hate this. You’d like to open that wide window of yours and stick your body out, farther and farther until…you either fell or you were flying far far away like the birds nesting in the magnolia tree.

But what good would any of that do when you’re stuck in a time loop?

Hopelessness fills you up to the brim, quenching that blazing anger. You wearily look around your room. It’s the same exact mess it had been a year ago. Your scrubs you’d remembered laundering for another clinical shift are now in a crumpled mess. You’re wearing an old, ratty pajama set you’d thrown out six months ago.

This rotting life continues to gnaw away at your sanity, but something within thuds sickeningly. Almost desperately…

There’s people that need you. That has to be enough...because there’s not much else left to hold on to.

Except…

You hear glass shattering from the apartment next door. You hear cursing. That’s...never happened before.

Against your better judgement, hope blooms in your sickly heart. Your phone has mercifully stopped the alarm. It is with an almost comical panic that you rush to get ready. 

You’re behind on your clockwork.

\---

He wakes on his grody couch, burying his head into the flat red throw pillow to shut out the sounds of his neighbor’s alarm. He gathers the facts in his thoughts.

Frisk is gone. Boss is gone.

The year had reset back to this dreary April day. Sans feels the weight of Time wrapping around his Soul, squeezing it until it threatens to shatter him into little bits of nothing.

He wishes it would finish the job.

He wishes it because he’s so tired of chasing ghosts. Of searching for a missing Frisk and Papyrus, only to wind up holding a tattered, dusty scarf and the shredded remains of a striped sweater.

Anger...anger is a familiar old friend. Settling well into his thoughts and warming him up after existential dread leaves him cold. He clings onto this because it has to be enough. There is nothing left to hold onto.

Back underground, it had served him well. Hardened up his soft bones early so that he could protect himself and his little brother. It’s probably why he’s so short in the first place, but that’s besides the point. Anger has been by his side...more constant than any other emotion. He’s scared that if he lets go of it, all he’ll have left is apathy.

Somehow that’s more terrifying than having to fight all the time.

What a fuckin’ sucker he is right? For daring to think that being on the Surface would mean everything was okay. For daring to think they’d all deserved even a bit of happiness after all they’d done.

The crappily painted mug Papyrus had made for him sits on the coffee table. The words are almost accusing.

“World’s most middling brother.” 

“i’m trying, boss. ya gotta give me that at least.”

His thoughts fill in the silence with memories of Papyrus’ grating reproaches.

_ Imbecile. Good-for-nothing...I Expected More of You. Be Fucking Selfish for Once...Get Up You Useless Layabout. _

Anger, at himself...at Boss...at Frisk...at the whole fuckin’ world curls up lovingly around his Soul and bites. The mug blurs in his sight and he isn’t entirely aware of what he’s doing when he engulfs it in his red magic and hurls it at the wall.

**“fuck.”** He says, but it’s a small, desperate thing. Despite his better judgement, he still has the gall to wish for something better.

And maybe, some deity is looking down on him and laughing as it hands him the smallest shred of hope.

Because not a few minutes later, someone is shoving a note under his front door and it’s new. It’s different. It’s fucking weird, but he’ll take it. 

**“Shut up. Thanks for being such a noisy asshole. Nice change of pace.” -Your neighbor**

He can’t understand the tone of it at all. It’s fucking annoying as much as it is cryptic, but something prods in his rotting core...something too alive and too pretty to rest among the tendrils of his anger.

He hates you.

He hates that you’ve made him hope.


	2. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try and stick to your patterns. Alas, that doesn't work.

He opens the door as soon as your footsteps disappear. He just manages to catch your form rushing around the corner of the apartment hallway. The door to the parking garage slams behind you.

His shaking hand curls up around your note, crumpling it as he finally decides to listen to his suspicion. 

He follows you.

It’s not hard. You ride your red motorcycle through the familiar city. Taking a familiar path to the local university. The very same university he happens to work at.

The coincidence isn’t a huge one. This is a college town. Most people living here are students, faculty, or employees of the large academic hospital affiliated with New Town U.

Now there’s always a set of constants in these loops.

  1. Frisk and Papyrus disappear in April.
  2. There’s an accident on 1st Avenue and Shiloh Blvd today.
  3. The human and monster disappearances begin.



Number 2 usually happens around 7:47 AM. Sans feels wretchedly alive. His magic thrums through his bones, heating them up and it’s only the chill of the Void as he shortcuts that helps him feel better.

The rain takes over when Space finishes moving past him. It runs down the divots in his skull, and makes him grumble. He catches your red motorcycle rolling to a stop at a red light. The cross traffic in front of you is heavy, but you set astride your bike unflinchingly.

He watches you wait at the intersection of 1st Avenue and Shiloh Blvd, disbelief makes him laugh.  **Holy fuck…**

He watches your helmeted head turn at an empty corner. Only for a monster child to come bounding into view, golden scales dimly shining underneath a gray sky. 

You know what’s coming.

He watches your form tense. The red light has come on for your cross traffic. There’s just a second or two before your street light turns green. The monster child can now cross the street, parallel to your route.

A silver sports car surges in that second or two, tail lights burning red in Sans’ sight as they head straight for the kid who's already begun to cross.

Without hesitation, you go before your light turns green. Without hesitation, you ram into the side of the speeding car. The car careens. The kid leaps back onto the sidewalk with a yelp. Sans watches your little body fly off of your destroyed motorcycle. He watches you sacrifice yourself for a monster child.

He moves.

He’s subtle about it. Where gravity should have terminated your arc with a deadly force, he slows your descent and guides you into a roll that dissipates the trauma.

Your helmet makes a series of seemingly painful cracks against the pavement, but you should be okay.

Traffic has stopped. There is screaming. People are gathering and the man’s out of his fancy, wrecked car and cussing up a storm.

He only sticks around long enough to make sure you get up. You do, with some difficulty. There’s already a group of disgustingly good Samaritans that are helping you up.

He’s saved your life.

You owe him now...even if you don’t know it. 

That sickening hope in his chest tightens its coils, but it’s maddening how little he cares. You’re an anomaly. The time loops are an anomaly. Perhaps...the only way to break an anomaly is with another one.

Watch out, Neighbor. This noisy asshole’s coming to collect his debt.

\---

You sit on a spare stretcher in the ER filled with a mix of anger and heady relief.

You’d fucked up bad. Today had started off with something new, you’d been distracted. You got off-track with your clockwork. You were usually early enough to get in the same lane as the silver car, right in front of him. Then you would usually stall in front of him for a bit, have him cuss you out and all the cars in the line behind you would beep. By the time you moved, the kid would have already been safe on the other side.

But you’re little note this morning had made you behind by four minutes. All you could do was slam into him from the other direction today. There had been no other way to stop that monster kid from being dusted.

You’re pissed off at yourself. But then that turns into self-pity, and that never got anyone anywhere. So you direct your anger towards your noisy neighbor who’d given you a hope you hadn’t needed.

Now you’re stuck here in a neck brace, under observance for a possible concussion. 

Truth be told, you were so fucking lucky. You should’ve been dead. You charged at that would-be murderer fully expecting to die. It’s happened once before...but then time had just reset, and you were back to the first day of the loop. 

You’re stuck and not even death can free you. 

You shake your head from those depressing thoughts, but a twinge of pain lances down your neck.

“Shit…” You complain, bringing up your bandaged arm to rub at it.

“Yeah. You look like shit.” Someone answers. You glare up at your visitor in blue scrubs, fully ready to chew them out about professionalism when you notice it’s just Lindsey.

Relief suffuses your tense form. Your cheeks warm up. You feel embarrassed and vulnerable, and having a classmate see you like this isn’t ideal. Even if she is a good friend.

“Good morning to you too, Lindsey. How’s your shift so far?” You try to ask casually. There’s a hitch in your voice that doesn’t make it come out smoothly.

She hugs her clipboard closer to her chest. She does a quick once over of your body. Her lower lip trembles as she takes in the neck brace and your bruised up face.

“G-god...you’re such an idiot ___.” She breathes out, surging forward to clasp your free hand. “How do you think my shift went? Finding out my friend missed her rotation because she was in the  _ goddamn ER.” _

“L-lins...I’m sorry. It was...an accident.” (That’s the same line the racist fuck had used during the first time loop when he’d successfully run the kid over. )

Lindsey doesn’t look any less worried. You try to assuage her fears.

“Look. I’m okay. Got really lucky. Minor injuries. I just...that guy tried to catch the yellow last minute...but he ended up catching me instead.” You joke darkly. It doesn’t work.

She tries to smile back, but the tears are already welling up in her eyes. She pats your hand. 

“S-sorry. Gotta go. Conflict of interest and all that. I’ll check on you later. Tell Dr. Muscles if you need anything. He’s running this shift.” She hastily exits, closing the curtains behind her. You know she’s going to go cry in the supply closet near the Pediatrics Ward. She always does.

The usual din of the ER is still loud and grating. Somehow your anger has deflated. You’re tired and sad. You feel your eyes sting.

“Just let me sleep forever.” You say to no one in particular. 

You can’t even do that now though. Concussion monitoring requires you to stay awake for the next few hours. Bored, you look through the gaps in the curtains. The television in the waiting room is on a local news station.

They’re playing cell phone footage of your crash. 

You watch in horror as your limp body is flung into the air...You land on the other side of traffic, cutting off the view of the camera.

By all means, you should be dead.

It’s all a blur in your mind, but you remember in that moment, it had felt like someone was holding you in a warm embrace.

You’d assumed it was the peacefulness of an expected death.

Something tells you, that’s not entirely right.

\---

A new patient comes into the waiting room just an hour later.

The ER is already packed, but this new arrival makes his presence known.

“ **_fuck. shit. fuck. it hurts. why won’t any of your fuckers help me!? ya hate monsters, is that it?”_ **

Your aching body and your poor, abused ears lend themselves to feeding back into your deadened anger. It flares up in your chest, burning through your limbs and throat until you want to do something to shut him up. Monster or not, he’s a bane to your existence.

He’s threatening to sue the poor EM resident, who has actually just graduated from medical school. He’s threatening to sue the nurses. You can hear the head nurse trying to calm him down. Trying to triage him.

You’d chosen nursing school to help heal others. You’d taken an oath. Patience is a natural requirement for the job. That last bit of patience is currently being used up.

You excuse your more angry thoughts. Right now, you’re not a nursing student. Right now, you’re a patient. And this idiot’s ruining your standard of care.

Your fury boils over, coiling up tighter and tighter in your chest until you feel like you can roar. 

_ “Remember, it’s all about Intent.”  _ They’d said in your Magical Medicine class. Intent to help and to be Kind. Well, you suppose the opposite could work as well.

You imagine your anger snapping, extending from your vicinity like a whip. Honing in on where that annoying new patient is currently being seated. You imagine it snapping across his throat, shutting him up.

You don’t have magic. You don’t know spells. No human does. But monsters can certainly sense strong emotions and you hope he’s choking on your annoyance right now.

“ **OI ASSHA-”**

The voice stops with a strangled yelp. 

Unfortunately for you, your bad luck is incomplete. 

Mr. Cusses-Like-A-Sailor is wheeled into the space next to you, and he’s glaring right at you with burning eyes.

No...literally...burning eyes...or eyelights set in deep dark empty sockets.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, curiosity sparks. Wowee...a skeleton monster. You’ve never seen one before. They’re incredibly rare.

You briefly take in the scowl twisting his unexpectedly malleable face. His skull is round and large and he’s filling out his white t-shirt more so than you would have expected.

He’s holding a detached arm in his other hand. The end of it, the humeral head, you recall is covered in a red substance. Strange, you didn’t think monsters bled. 

Almost comically, he pushes back the curtains between you two with his detached arm.

You’re not sure why, but he’s livid as he takes in your form. You glare, ready to chew him out some more when he opens his mouth and says in the worst voice-

**“y o u”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...they meet...


	3. fucks given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they meet and strange things happen

Your gaze is imperious. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t internally shitting yourself, but you’d never show him that. Your pride won’t let you. It wraps around you spine, straightening up your posture as best you can in a neck brace.

You wince. But you still keep your eyes locked on his.

You point to yourself and tilt your head. (Again, not really that much tilting going on with a neck brace.)

“ **yeah, you!** you little fuck. you the one who’s got a bone to pick?” He growls out. The red in his eye lights flares hard, and you struggle not to flinch.

“Yeah. You wouldn’t shut up, noisy asshole. People here are trying their best and you get off on threatening everyone here.” You bite out, glad to finally be able to take out your anger on someone.

You sit up, ready to say more. The sheet around you falls back onto your lap, and he gapes.

His eyes drop down to your scan your body. Your still in the same torn up, bloody clothes. The motorcycle jacket laying across the end of your bed took most of the damage, but your jeans are still blood stained and ripped. Your shirt’s sweaty and gross. You look like shit, but the ER team’s got more important things to deal with than your vanity.

You can accept that much. You cannot accept some sleazebag checking you out when you’re in pain.

“Got a problem now, jacka-”

“shut up. lemme think.” He brandishes his detached arm at you almost accusingly. “you...you’re the human idiot from the accident.”

The anger in his face dissipates, but he’s still scowling. He scratches his head with the detached arm. You’re really starting to think he’s not actually injured. His pain levels seem managed, even if he’s looking a little sweaty. Maybe pale too? 

Is that a thing with skeleton monsters? Then again, they’re so rare, even your program hadn’t done a good job in teaching you how to triage them.

You decide you’ve had enough of his presence. You jerk to the side and pull the curtain closed between you two. 

“what the fuck?! HEY. I WAS TALKIN!’”

His protests are silenced when someone else enters his space.

“Ah...it’s you Sans. I never expected to see you on this side of the country? Now tell me, what can I do for you?” Says a very nasally voice you recognize as Dr. Muscles. You feel bad for him. He’s not your favorite doc, but he doesn’t deserve to work with the asshat next to you.

You listen to the doctor gather Sans’ history. Listen as he gives his complaints. Patient privacy and all that is important, but who are you gonna tell? It’s more of a learning opportunity anyway.

“I never thought dislocations for skeletons were so painful?” Dr. Muscles says.

“shows what you know, then.” 

“Now, now. Sans...you have to work with me here…”

“never took you for the working type Aaron.”

There’s a brief neigh of dismay, but Dr. Muscles gathers his composure and continues his assessment. The details become fuzzy as you lose yourself in the apathy that swallows you. Logistics begin to become a worry. Your only mode of transport is wrecked. You can afford a new one, but that means your yearly vacation money is gone. Or you can take the bus. 

At least the kid’s alive. That’s what matters most. You won’t have to put golden flowers on that street corner again. You won’t let it happen.

Sans’ exam seems to go okay, because soon Dr. Muscles parts the curtains and steps into your room.

“Good morning, ______. I expected you here for your clinical shift...not as a patient.”

Irritation spikes through you. It’s not like you’d meant for this to happen. You can only give a strained laugh.

“Neither did I, doc. Honestly.”

He pushes his tiny spectacles up his long horsey face. His white coat looks like it’s going straining to contain his enormous biceps. His pretty fish tail lashes out in agitation.

“Nevertheless, I’m glad you’re alive.” He says softly. 

You startle, looking up at his concerned expression. There’s a nasty scar over one of his eyes, but he looks so earnestly worried, you feel a stirring of shame in you. Seems like he really did care about his students. Worry is a good look for him. 

Caring is a good look for most monsters.

It’s taken them a while to soften up, but folks like the doc here remind you that they’re still healing. Even seven years after the barrier broke…

“Sorry...I...it was an accident.” You mutter. Such a rehearsed response. It sounds fake even to you.

A flash of light shines into your eyes briefly. 

“HEY!”

“Hmm...your pupillary reflex is intact. Can you follow my fingers with your eyes alone please?” Dr. Muscles says. 

“What happened to bedside manner?” You complain.

“Hay and bedside manner are for horses.” He says simply, almost daring you to call him a horse.

You decide it’s not worth it and complete the physical exam with little complaint. He wraps up with the consensus that you do not have a concussion, but that you have whiplash, some of your ribs may be bruised, and a severely sprained ankle. Other than that, you’re fine...much to his relief and yours.

“It’s almost, quite unbelievably, a miracle.” He says amazed. “I saw the footage. You could’ve…”

You shrug, but then think better of it.

“Yeah...I guess.”

He looks at you contemplatively for a bit, before sighing sadly.

“You should take better care of yourself...there are people who care about you.”

With that, he leaves your room and your esteem. Stupid, busy-body doctors.

\----

Now that you’re discharged, you think you’ll get some peace. You amble your way to the Duber you’ve called in your brand new crutches. In one hand, you clutch your pain meds. In the other, you’re tracking the car.

The rain hasn’t let up, so you stay underneath the awning of the hospital’s cafe. The turn around is right there. It’s really cold. Unfortunately, your jacket now looks like a mop of spaghetti. It wouldn’t have been useful. 

You should call into work and tell Catherine you can’t make it today. She’s gonna freak. You briefly consider calling your mother, but decide otherwise. She’d make a bigger deal of it than necessary...and it’s not as if she’s drop everything to fly all the way across the country just because you have a sprained ankle.

It hits you truly how alone you’ve managed to make yourself. You belong to no one but Time, and it’s such a shitty friend, it’s made you relive this year over and over.

“what’s got ya looking like ya ate shit?”

You want to cry. Why can’t you catch a break? It’s cold and your body aches and you almost died, but you’re still stuck with a weird asshat. Everything about this day is new, but you can’t find it in yourself to enjoy that fact. You haven’t sunk so low, that you’d rejoice is some new misfortunes.

Not yet.

You don’t retort. You just let your eyes drift over to the side and shoot him a glare, before staring back at your phone. You notice in that brief inspection that his arm is back on and in a sling.

“need a ride home? you look bonely.”

Pfft. Somehow that actually gets a brief amused exhale from you. 

“Are you hitting on someone who just came out of the ER?”

“no! Ugh...fuck i’m not that low. ah whatever fuck it.”

He scratches the back of his head. The sound of bone on bone is a little unpleasant. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You shiver. 

Something heavy drapes over your shoulders. You startle and nearly fall over yourself trying to maneuver your crutches. Bony hands steady your arms...bony hands over a heavy, black jacket that’s been thrown hastily on your back.

“woah...woah...god, yer like a fucking whimsun. ya gonna crap yerself over every little surprise?”

You glance at him wide-eyed. He looks away from you. There’s red inexplicably crawling up his face.

“What do you want?” You say simply.

“i jus’ thought...you were shakin’ or whatever...geeze, you know what, if you don’t want it, then fuck it, i’ll take it ba-” 

You tap his tibia with the tip of your crutch to make him shut up.

“Thanks for the jacket...but what do you want?”

He looks down at his black sneakers. You notice they’re really nice. They have gold stars for aglets. His expression is pained. His phalanges curl into fists at his side. His teeth look sharper than before. Angry….he’s angry. Not at you though...you can tell that much.

His eyes are blazing as his head snaps up and looks you right in the eye. His right hand rises up to your chest level, his stomach (if he had one) level. You look at the pretty cream colored bone, noting the contrast between the gaudy gold rings on his fingers and the ivory.

“we got off on the wrong foot. name’s Sans, or you can call me noisy asshole. nice to meet ya neighbor.” He says. His smile is forced. Everything about this is forced, but your hope rises up in your chest and strangles your words.

This is your neighbor. The one not following patterns. The noisy asshole.

You take his hand, the cold metal and warm bone strange against your clammy flesh. The world shatters away and there is nothing but pain.

\---

When you wake, there is only a harsh keening in your ears.

“ **shit. shit. fuck, answer me, kid?!”**

You really do try, but when you do think about your mouth, you realize it's already open in a silent scream of pain.

Oh. Right. It hurts.

Your physical being finally catches up with your thoughts. The pain sweeps through, roiling from somewhere in your chest. Your heart’s beating too fast. Your sight is blurry.

You throw up on his nice sneakers.

“ **_aww fuck, really?!”_ **

You recognize that voice. You recognize those pretty sneakers with the shiny stars for aglets. Dimly, you feel some regret that they’re now covered in acrid vomit. You can’t do much more than curl up into a tighter ball on the rough purple carpet.

What an ugly carpet.

It’s the same color as the one in your apartment. As a matter of fact, it’s the exact same kind.

You are somehow back in your apartment building. It makes no sense. The world hasn’t stopped spinning.

Bony fingers with shiny gold rings bring up a wet cloth to your face. They wipe off the vomit dribbling down your chin with a gentleness you hadn’t expected. He holds your lolling head in his lap. It’s surprisingly cushiony for a skeleton.

His usual grumpy face is contorted with worry. You don’t feel alone anymore.

Thanks, you hate it.

You feel embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this. This stranger who lives next door. The noisy asshole is caring for you.

Something tells you this is his fault.

“Wha…” You can’t get the words out without wanting to hurl. Huurrrk.

He shoves a stiff pillow under your head and disappears. You close your eyes until the aches recede.

He lifts you up against his broad chest. You glance at up at him accusingly, but he only grimaces as he presses a cold glass against your parched mouth.

“Drink it. you’ll feel better. promise.”

You do.

Gross, saline liquid that smells like seaweed slithers down your throat. It’s unpleasant, but you fight past the added nausea and gulp it.

“thatta girl.”

The coolness becomes a tangible thing, curling up in your gut and soothing the peristaltic waves. It reaches up and presses chilled fingers against your temples and throbbing eyelids until your headache subsides. It wraps, cold and vice-like around your chest, soothing the burning there.

  
“Wha...What did you do to me?” You finally manage, grasping at your shirt.

“fer fucks-sake, what’s wrong with ya? i just brought ya through a shortcut and ya dyin’ on me?”

You laugh bitterly, closing your eyes and not moving from his chest. He lays you back down on the floor, but places a hand on your clammy forehead. He’s searching for something.

“Even if I die, it’s not gonna stop is it. It’ll just repeat. What does it matter?”

He stills. It probably makes no sense to him. You probably got your hopes up for no reason and he thinks you’re an insane person. 

“It’s not gonna stop. but it matters because you...and i...uhhh we can stop it.” he says.

Your eyes flare open at that, wide and disbelieving.

He gives you an awkward grin, full of burgeoning hope that looks out of place on his scarred and pitted skull. It’s too beautiful an expression.

“hey again there neighbor…’bout fuckin’ time we met. Heh.”

It’s a goddamned pun. It’s a pun and it’s not funny and you’re not laughing, but the tears flood your eyes and run down your cheeks, falling to the carpet with melancholy plops.

It’s barely enough, but you’re holding on.

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ...these two are way more direct than our other duo. your motorcycle is broken. you can shortcut, but it feels horrendous...how to proceed?

**Author's Note:**

> So I caved. This story rather will be far shorter than Just Enough, and is going to deviate a lot from the original storyline. Think of it as an alternate universe...with similar characters. Even the reader will be a bit different. More jaded. Thank you for reading.
> 
> I'm trying to write this in such a way that you do not need to have read just enough to get the full story. It'll be told in a series of one shots basically.


End file.
